


Luminosity

by Issay



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Gift Exchange, Gift Fic, Grief/Mourning, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-09 02:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8871649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Issay/pseuds/Issay
Summary: “Let’s go home,” says Gandalf after the burials are complete and there is no reason to stay in Erebor. The elves are leaving, too. He knows it’s time to go. But…Home? Bilbo wants to ask. My home is buried under tons upon tons of rock. My home is alone in the royal crypt, with only the dead for company and Arkenstone to light his way through the darkness. What home are you talking about?*Also known as the fic proving that I have no idea how to write a cheery Christmas story.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Story_Dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Story_Dragon/gifts).



> Glorestor,  
> it was supposed to be a fluffy and joyous Christmas fic but since you gave me a lot of creative freedom, this happened. My brain is a terrible, terrible place but I hope you'll like this fic anyway.  
> Happy Holidays! <3

After all is said and done, Bilbo has no idea what to do.

There are no more orcs to kill, no kingdoms to worry about. The dwarves are busy digging a massive open grave at the battlefield, near the main gate – there’s no way to bury everyone in Erebor’s crypts so many soldiers will lay for eternity guarding the entrance they fell protecting. Bilbo finds it grimly fitting. He’s watching the proceedings from a pile of rocks, hoping no one will disturb him there. No such luck. He should have known.

“Dain will probably become the king.” The dwarf sits next to the hobbit, his eyes never leaving the gravediggers. “But we’ll bury Arkenstone with Thorin. Dain shouldn’t have it.”

Bilbo nods.

“Will you stay?” he asks and Nori grunts softly.

“He’s not my king,” the dwarf mutters. “He’s not Erebor. But D… but others want to stay so I suppose…”

The hobbit smiles slightly. _Others_ , right. Bilbo knows that Nori didn’t mean ‘others’, he meant Dwalin, and that’s all right. He’s seen the looks they’ve exchanged throughout the journey. He himself exchanged similar ones.

Bilbo closes his eyes, not wanting to think about it. Memories hurt too much, even amidst the overwhelming pain coursing through his veins.

“They’re going to burn the orcs,” mutters Nori. “You should come inside before you choke on smoke.”

Bilbo makes no move to acknowledge it, and he doesn’t even notice when Nori slips away. The only thing he can think about is the face he sees every time he closes his eyes and nothing else matters, not really.

Eventually, he drags his tired body from the pile of rocks and heads inside, passing the mass grave slowly filling with bodies of dead dwarves. Crows are circling the mountain, their cries filling the air, making the cries of the still living dwarves almost inaudible. Almost. Bilbo starts to hate crows.

 

“Let’s go home,” says Gandalf after the burial ceremonies are completed and there is no reason to stay in Erebor. The elves are leaving, too. He knows it’s time to go. But…

 _Home?_ Bilbo wants to ask. _My home is buried under tons upon tons of rock._ _My home is alone in the cold royal crypt, with only the dead for company and Arkenstone to light his way through the darkness. What home are you talking about?_

But he doesn’t because it’s time to go and it will hurt no matter when he does leave the Lonely Mountain behind, this day or the next. So instead he simply nods, not saying anything because he’s ran out of words as well as tears.

 

Rivendell should feel comforting and welcoming. It’s beauty and everlasting wisdom should fill Bilbo with peace and serenity. It doesn’t. He still feels empty. He’s felt this way ever since Thorin’s eyes closed not to open again and his strong heartbeat fell silent.

Bilbo knows elves can’t understand him – their way of grieving is so different, so unimaginably strange to him. They part with their loved ones in hope of meeting them again someday. Bilbo thinks of the cold nothingness that devoured everyone he’s ever loved and almost weeps. The idea of seeing them in the next world – or whatever the elves want to call it – is uplifting, of course. But it’s still not really believable to Bilbo. He’s seen too much death and destruction to still believe that the world can offer him something in return. But maybe, for scholarly reasons, he should go to Lord Elrond’s sizeable library and read a book about it. Later, he decides. He’s found himself a nice nook where he can watch the waterfall and listen to the birds singing in the treetops. He’s content, for now.

Bilbo pretends he doesn’t notice the looks the elves give him during meals but soon starts to skip them, getting food from the kitchens instead. He doesn’t need their pity, even if he knows they’re confusing it with kindness.

“You cannot keep hiding, master hobbit,” says one of the elves one day. Bilbo startles and reaches for his sword but then he remembers he’s not carrying one anymore. He’s in Rivendell, not in Erebor. He smiles apologetically as he looks at the tall, graceful figure standing near his little spot.

“I’m not hiding,” he corrects softly, his eyes again at the falling water. Falling and falling in the never ending cycle.

“Are you grieving?”

Bilbo shrugs, not sure what to tell the elf. He remembers him, briefly, from when the Company’s stay. Erestor, his name was. Lord Elrond’s counselor or whatever the title was.

“May I join you?”

This time Bilbo looks at him with surprise but nods.

“I didn’t know that elves practice the same type of grief.”

Erestor smiles sadly and in this smile is everything the hobbit needed to know. There’s love and pain, and the knowledge that sometimes eternity is way too long. And Bilbo has seen him with another elf. But he paid them no attention. After all, it wasn’t his business.

“Is grief not universal?” Erestor laughs bitterly, sitting down next to the hobbit. “And…and sometimes one grieves while the other is still alive.”

Bilbo can’t help but nod again. And Erestor could tell him tales of longing, of the unsatisfied want and stolen precious moments in the shadows where no one can see. They could have conversations about the rules of the elven society, of things that are considered a crime. About love that cares not for the rules. Or at least about the terrible loneliness in the middle of the night, shared by so many in this most beautiful place in Middle Earth. Bilbo could ask about how Lord Elrond’s face gets bitter when someone mentions King Thranduil. They could exchange gossip and observations.

But they don’t.

Instead, they’re silent for a very long while, watching the waterfall.

“It will pass,” says Bilbo eventually but there is no hope in his voice. Neither of them comments on that.

 

As the years go by, Bilbo finds out that the only thing that gets easier is pretending that everything’s as it should be. He returns to his home in the Shire and takes in his nephew, as any good hobbit should. He attends countless parties, teas, luncheons, brunches, and elevensies. Becomes a decent neighbor, though most hobbits still think him to be a strange fellow. If only they knew, he thinks one sunny day. If only they knew he loved a dwarven king once, and that his heart was shattered to pieces when Thorin died. They would think him indecent. Hobbits were usually a rather open folk but some things just weren’t done, just like among the elves. Bilbo chuckled without real mirth. He wasn’t sure what would cause more distress: the idea of two males loving each other, or the idea of being compared to elves.

And then, just like that, he’s old and another generation goes to war. Young and hopeful one. Bilbo knows they’ll return broken and somewhat less of themselves, but doesn’t say anything because someone has to go, blood has to be spilled, that’s the way the world works. Bilbo knows that now. So he doesn’t stop Frodo and watches him go, disappear into the fog. After the Fellowship is gone, Bilbo turns away and goes to sit on his favorite bench, watching the waterfall. Autumn might have reached Rivendell, birds might have left for warmer places in the South, but the water falls as always.

He’s so weary.

(It goes like this:

He waits the war out in Rivendell and is completely useless, more than once feeling that he’s just a waste of space. Bilbo listens to reports from battlefields and his heart almost gives out when the word reaches about the second Battle of Erebor. He prays to whomever may be listening.

At night more often than not Erestor joins him, watching the stars.

After some time Bilbo knows that the elf his friend loves is named Glorfindel and that he is one of the Firstborn, and that there are strict rules about these things. Erestor’s face bears the markings of long grief and Bilbo knows there are  no words of comfort for him so he doesn’t say anything.

They keep going and then the war is over, the sun is bright again, and Bilbo is so tired he wishes he could simply go to sleep. But there are still things to be done, so he holds on.

Frodo comes back and he’s just a shadow of himself, just like Bilbo grimly predicted years ago. The old hobbit holds him in his arms, long, relieved that at least this one war hasn’t managed to kill someone he loves.

He could go to sleep now, Bilbo knows. But Frodo needs him, just like he did in those early days after his parents died and he woke up screaming every night. And so once again Bilbo holds on to this little scrap of life he’s got left.

And then they leave, and suddenly there is a whole eternity before him, and his heart breaks once again.)

(Except it doesn’t happen like this because Eru is not cruel and smiles at the brave old hobbit.)

Instead, it goes like this:

“It’s over,” says Erestor in wonder. “Sauron is no more, Mordor’s less than a pile of ash and rocks.”

“Frodo?”

“Alive.”

Bilbo smiles and nods, relieved beyond words, and for a brief moment squeezes the elf’s fingers.

“I’d better go, spread the joyous news. I’ll come back in some time, take you to supper, yes?”

“Of course,” answers the hobbit quietly and watches Erestor hurry away. It’s a good day. He’s not even cold anymore and the tree he’s been leaning on seems almost soft. No one will mind if he closes his eyes just for a moment, for a short nap…

When he opens them again, he’s not in Rivendell. No, he’s miles away – or maybe he hasn’t left at all? Oh, no, now he recognizes this place. It’s his favorite armchair in his own little drawing room in Bag End!

“Took you long enough,” says grumpy voice from the other side of the room and Bilbo jumps up, like he did when he was young, takes a few steps and then halts again. Because in the doorway, in the stream of sunlight, stands Thorin Oakenshield, alive and well, barefoot, dressed only in breeches and a comfortable-looking white shirt.

“Someone had to make sure that those knuckleheads would get it right,” answers Bilbo, his voice shaking and vision swimming with tears. Thorin laughs and it’s just like the hobbit remembers it to sound, deep and coming from the dwarf’s belly. Unconsciously, Bilbo takes another step, and then another, and then he falls into strong arms and takes a deep breath. Fur and wood. Not blood, not ash, not insanity. Fur and wood. _Home._

They stand there for an eternity, Bilbo’s face hidden in the cloth of Thorin’s shirt, Thorin’s fingers softly stroking Bilbo’s hair.

“I’m so sorry,” whispers the king eventually.

“Shhhh.”

“The way I…”

“Thorin.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up, Your Highness. We have an eternity for this.”

Next to Bilbo’s ear, the kings chest rumbles with laughter and Bilbo almost physically feels the memory of the same chest being silent burn away and disappear, leaving only the sweet relief. The battle and the long lonely years now seem like it was just a terrible dream. Bilbo feels awake and warm and happy for the first time in… In…

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” He murmurs. Thorin’s arms tighten around him.

“You’ve had a long life, Bilbo. And a good death.”

“Well, I guess I did.” The hobbit laughs silently. “They’ll have to go on without me. They’ll manage, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

There are questions he ought to ask, like where the hell are they and why does it look like Bad End. Or if they can go and see their friends who died before them. Or… Well, he guesses it can wait.

“Thorin.”

“Yes?”

“Kiss me already?”

He does, as softly and hesitantly as the first kiss should be, and the world bursts out with song and sunlight. Somewhere, Eru smiles because in the grand design of things the amount of suffering and the amount of joy are finally equal.

And the world moves on.


End file.
